


To the Edge of the Stars

by whereyoursoulresides



Category: Lost Light - Fandom, MTMTE - Fandom, More than Meets the Eye - Fandom, The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: AU, Feels, Humanformers, M/M, mtmte setting, some porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21556501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereyoursoulresides/pseuds/whereyoursoulresides
Summary: A collection of one-shots, songfics and vignettes exploring the relationship between Drift and Rodimus (and sometimes others). Inspired by and based on breakdownsbuttlights' humanformers!AU.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Rodimus, Drift | Deadlock/Rodimus Prime
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	To the Edge of the Stars

_ Baby don't hurt me _

_ Don't hurt me _

_ No more _

_ What is love? _

Love is laying on a couch with your best friend, cushioned by the sound of laughter. Stomachs and ribs aching from giggles. 

You’re both dishevelled, comfortable in your skin and his, both your legs spread open. He’s got his head next to you, a gentle weight on your shoulder. You wonder if he notices it, his smile crinkling wider and wider as you bring him to laughter. His hair is slick and smooth, just like the rest of him. One hand is resting against his forehead, knuckles brushing the stray hairs away. For once his sword isn’t strapped to him, and the blades hidden in his cargo pants are heavy and asleep. You both barely notice he’s got them.

Love is bumping against the body of the blades, feeling them dig into your thigh, bringing memories of how he saved you that first night. How he’s saved you lots of times, in every wee hour. When you’re panicking because you’re due to submit a report, but the letters flip back around you and you don’t know what they mean. Or when you’re up at 2am, realizing you’ve promised too much to too many people, and you can’t let them down. True love is him letting you break your promises to him first, always. Because he gets you, and knows that’s how he can save you.

But you save him in return, with your infectious confidence, your certainty that everything will work out, your insistence of his worth. Because of you, he’s off the streets for good. Because of you, he’s comfortable enough, safe enough, to shed all his layers and lounge in only his trousers and muscle shirt on your sofa. To show you his skin, to lean against you without thinking. To smile and feel a reason for life.

You want that smile, you realize. When you catch his eyes close peacefully, you want to wake them up again. You’re gripped by a sudden desire - stronger than the highest hit, the most powerful inspiration. You want him.

So you kiss him.

He makes a surprised sound, eyes open. But he lets you remain, your lips slowly parting his. He seems to think about it, cheek ridges starting to glow….but then he eyelids flutter, and he succumbs. He’s yours.

You turn over, cradling over him. You adjust yourself so you don’t scare him or suffocate him, but you still love the feeling of his torso against your skin. You keep yourself raised with one arm on his other side, tenting over him. Protecting him. Respecting him.

He arches under the cover you provide, his narrow waist and shapely thighs arcing with fluidity. His black hair slips like a waterfall, opening up his throat, where you kiss and graze and drag the edge of your teeth down. The breathless noises he makes makes you hard, even harder; they’re so soft they’re barely audible, but you catch the quake of their desperation, the tremble of their desire for you. You press yourself into him hard now, to reassure him.

Shirts come off, so naked skin is pressed against naked skin. It’s hot. You’re hot. You’re always hot! But you can’t get away from the feeling of him molded against you. He’s pale and firm and supple, writhing under you in perfect unison. His long torso bends and ripples as he takes to you like a vine to a tree. Your hands are all over him, then under the waistband of his pants.

You cup him, firmly, and he groans, nails raking faintly across your back. You kiss him even more passionately now. You want him alive, you want him lit, you want him desperate for you. You want all his love pouring out at you, for you. You want the real Drift.

No one else gets him like you do. This is the way he likes it. This is how your partnership works. There’s a balance to every force, a shade to every sun. He is your shade. He likes the shade. You warm him up.

The trousers are off now, and he’s swollen completely in your hand. You leave affectionate bite marks over his shoulders and neck. He groans again and opens himself wider. You don’t know what you’re doing, but this feels right. Vaguely in your mind, you remind yourself to fight against your inner instinct - now is not the time for speed.

But you are desperate, and so is he. You sloppily grope around you for any kind of lubrication; but you only hear the clanks of empty beer cans and bottles. His trousers slide onto the floor with a heavy thud - but the sound only makes him arch his back harder, and you know you can’t wait. You can’t leave.

So you make do, you grab both of you together. There’s rocking, grinding, each of you pivoting back and forth like pistons in an engine. You tangle your hand in his hair, you wonder if it’s too hard, too soft, or just right. But he doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head to let you hold him firmer still. Thank god he’s so flexible. Thank god he loves you for the way you are.

You’ve thought speed should not be your friend now, but he’s speeding up too. So you match him, both of you panting and groaning, with occasional yelps of shock and pleasure. You pump him hard, along with yourself, your cocks pressed together tight. He can’t pull himself away from you unless you let go. He won’t.

You both arch as your seeds shoot forth, dribbling down your hand and dotting his lithe stomach. He’s sweaty and shiny now, the dips of his abs rising and falling and everything about him sparkles like a dream. You vaguely think this is also how he looks when he’s finished training, when he’s pulled out his sword and shown you what to practice.  _ Fuck _ he is gorgeous.

You collapse on him, and he inhales sharply, taking in your weight and scent. Your senses come back to you, and you roll back onto the side of the sofa. You’re both too tired and drunk and high now to do anything about it, but enjoy the prolonged sense of bliss. You love him, sure, but this isn’t a romantic thing. It’s just an expression of friendship. He’ll understand.

After all, if he didn’t, he wouldn’t still be here.


End file.
